Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) (12 page)

Tierney had sat on the step with him, wringing her hands helplessly, and talked, or tried to talk, of his plans.

“I’m happy for ye, Robbie,” she had said, “if that’s what ye want sae bad—more land. I’d hae thought y’d be happy as a king wi’ your ain wee homestead.”

The Scots accent and the muffled words told of the misery of her heart.

And then she had said, “Ye canna keep coomin’ o’er here, Robbie. I’ll nae see ye again . . . it’s not reet . . . right. Dinna coom, Robbie.”

And Robbie knew she was right; he stayed away.

He had seen her next at church. Though Robbie had not made church attendance a practice, he went the first Sunday Tierney was in Bliss, knowing she would be there with the Blooms—faithful members. Sitting behind her, watching the sun through the window as it rollicked among the glints and gleams of her ravishing head of hair—his heart turned over. He had, indeed, done a terrible thing. Perhaps a final thing.

Then, remembering Alice, too ill to come to church, he felt that he was being unfaithful, in some way, by hungering for Tierney, and he groaned within himself over the strange turn of events that had brought him to this painful moment. Promised to one woman by words, pledged to another in his heart—Robbie, quite naturally and for the first time in his life, felt guilt-ridden. Perhaps a prayer . . .

But Robbie Dunbar was not a praying person. Perhaps, if he had been, he thought grimly, he wouldn’t have gotten himself in such a fix.

He had erred. He had erred greatly. Not only to Tierney but to Alice. Alice deserved better, if only for the short time she had left.

It became clear to Robbie, as he thought on the entire sordid situation, that he had placed himself in as unprincipled a state as could be imagined. Loving Tierney, marrying Alice—and accompanying this was the unspoken thought that he was waiting for Alice’s death.

When this realization sprang full blown in Robbie’s mind, he almost gasped aloud, so stricken was he by the truth, the miserable truth. It had sounded so good on the surface: help Alice; be there for the boys; be bighearted; do a generous act of kindness. But even the kindness aspect faded when he thought further about the boys, who were, he admitted, beginning to turn their affections toward him, looking to him as a father figure in their lives, and who might yet be disappointed. Surely there was more selfishness than wisdom in what he was doing.

Under the sound of the gospel message as delivered by Parker Jones that morning, arrows of conviction struck and stayed and quivered in Robbie Dunbar’s heart.

The sermon was based on the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, “The love chapter,” Parker Jones called it, and faithfully pointed out the “more excellent way.”

“Charity [or love, Parker substituted] . . . doth not behave itself unseemly.”

In the light of the Scripture and the sermon, what Robbie had done was not only unacceptable but reprehensible . . . unseemly! And try as he would to think calmly about it, the idea that he had behaved toward Alice, and toward Tierney, in a most unacceptable way, could not be excluded any longer from his thinking.

What a fix to be in! What could he, honorably, do? Alice was innocent, needy, depending on him. And he had given his word. By agreeing to marry her he had done one dishonorable thing; he’d not compound it by another.

Shaking hands at the close of the service, smiling, talking, heart beating heavily all the while, Robbie thought he was, after all, just “sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal,” and no real man. And certainly not a man of God, a man of principle.

Bowing his head over the mane of his horse as he rode home—with Tierney quiet and reserved in the Bloom wagon, her eyes hurt and avoiding his glance—Robbie Dunbar prayed what was probably the first serious, earnest prayer of his life. It was preceded by the thought “Only God can get me out of this
mess that I’m in.” And not himself only; Alice Hoy and Tierney Caulder were deeply affected by his actions, by his choices.

O God! Please solve this terrible situation . . . please show me what to do
, he prayed.

Well, that’s ready, Tierney said to herself, stepping outside the small shack that was the quarters of the Blooms’ hired man. She had spent an hour cleaning it thoroughly after Ahab’s departure, sweeping the board floor, shaking the rag rug, plumping up the pillow on the rocker beside the small heater, stripping the bed, turning the mattress, and putting on clean sheets and blankets. Any moment now the new man, Quinn Archer by name, would arrive. Arrive in time to do the evening chores. Without Ahab the last few days, Herbert had roused himself to unusual activity and had milked and watered and fed the animals by himself, though with a good deal of “Ahemming” sprinkled throughout his conversation all day long. Herbert felt put upon, doing his own work.

In the house, where the hired man ordinarily took his meals along with the family—though he could, if he wished, do so on the small stove top in his shack—special preparations were underway. First impressions were important! One needed to impress the hired man, after all. Good help was hard to find! Or so Lydia told Tierney every once in a while, with a solemn shake of the head followed by a kind smile.

“Whatever would we do without you . . .”

“It wasn’t nearly so good before you came!”

And just flat out “I’m so glad you came to be with us!”

Lydia saw the two horses and their riders from the kitchen window. “That must be him—that Quinn fellow,” she said to Tierney, who stopped beating the cream for the top of the pie and came to stand beside her.

“And that’s Herkimer with him,” Lydia continued. “You met Herkimer at church, you may remember, my dear. He’s a
bachelor, of course. He knows right well it’s suppertime. And he knows Lydia Bloom never turns anyone away hungry. Might as well,” she warned, “be prepared to set another plate on the table. No doubt about it—Herkimer will eat supper with us.”

“Those’re the Bloom cows over there,” that worthy gentleman was saying, pointing to a dozen or so cattle in a nearby pasture as he and Quinn Archer came down the road at a comfortable pace. “Say, Archer, do you know how to calc’late the number of cows in any herd?”

“I thought I did,” the stranger said, with a wry glance at his loquacious companion, a man of considerable girth and as full of fun as of talk.

Herkimer Pinkard had attached himself to the newcomer in the hamlet of Bliss, offering generously to show him the way, personally, to the Bloom homestead, and already Quinn Archer had an understanding of the sort of fellow Herkimer was—neighborly, open, given to great good humor.

“But I’m sure,” Quinn continued now in response to Herkimer’s question, “if there’s a better way to figure the number of cows in a herd, you’re about to tell me.”

“It’s this way,” Herkimer said, settling himself comfortably in the saddle and watching Quinn Archer closely to see what effect his explanation would have (Herkimer liked an appreciative audience). “It’s this way—you count their legs and divide by four.”

Quinn Archer grinned enough so that Herkimer was satisfied and cast about in his mind for another such sally, in order to bring about the good cheer and enjoyment that, to Herkimer Pinkard, made life worth living.

“This is the Bloom farm?” the stranger asked, nodding toward the buildings that had appeared in an opening in the bush. “A prosperous appearing place.”

“If it don’t grow, Herbert can buy it. If it runs away, Herbert can replace it. If it lays down and dies—”

Just what Herbert would do in such an instance, Quinn Archer never knew. A young woman had stepped from the shadow
of the porch, to walk to the clothesline and pin up what seemed to be a damp tea towel. Young, shapely, her hair glowing vividly in the late afternoon sun, she caught the attention of both bachelors, who automatically dug their heels into the sides of their horses, hurrying them into a trot.

Even the garrulous Herkimer found himself curiously silent, intent on the girl’s graceful passage. “Marriage is a great institution,” he said, finally, more thoughtful than anyone would have supposed him to be, “but I didn’t know, till now, that I was ready for an institution.”

And now Quinn Archer gave the former wag the accolade he had wanted—he greeted Herkimer’s philosophy with a shout of laughter.

“Good luck!” he called, his excellent mount already nearer the final goal than the accompanying plow horse carrying the big, bumbling form of Herkimer Pinkard.

On this good-natured exchange they turned in at the gate, made their way to the farmyard, and were greeted by Herbert Bloom, who reached up to the stranger, shook his hand, and welcomed him.

“Take the horses to the barn, Herk,” he suggested, “and you’ll earn yourself as good a supper as you’re liable to find hereabouts.”

“Well, the price is right,” Herkimer said agreeably, took the reins to Quinn Archer’s horse, and did as directed. After all, everyone knew Lydia Bloom was an excellent cook and, moreover, there was variety, tasty variety, at the Bloom table. Herkimer was mighty weary of fried potatoes and onions, his recent experiment with change in his diet. What had seemed novel at first had quickly changed to surfeit.

Herbert guided the new man through the kitchen door—the only entrance used by any home in the territories—and presented him to the ladies of the household.

Because the Blooms were among the fortunate few to have an icehouse, there was roast beef for supper rather than the ubiquitous chicken, ordinarily the only fresh meat available on
a farm home. Unless, of course, someone went out with the rifle and brought back a rabbit or two. Partridges, in season, were relished. But beef or venison—there was none of it, usually, in the warm months, aside from the little that might have been canned and put on the cellar shelves for later enjoyment.

Tierney opened the oven door and rich beefy flavor filled the room; Quinn Archer was not too well-bred to sniff the air, nod, and smile engagingly. Herkimer, that poorly fed bachelor, when he came in, closed his eyes in pure bliss, and inhaled deeply and often.

Lydia greeted the newcomer warmly. Quinn Archer, gentleman that he was, waited for her hand to be presented before offering to shake hands. Then it was a firm, brief grip, along with a small bow of the head, his hat held casually in his other hand; Lydia was impressed immediately. Tierney, a hired person, as he was, turned from the stove and nodded.

“Tierney,” Lydia directed, “dip some warm water from the reservoir for this gentleman—”

Quinn Archer found a nail among those beside the door, hung up his hat, and turned toward the washstand. Tall and well built, he bent gracefully enough over the low stand, washing his face as well as his hands.

“It’s been a long ride,” he explained as he reached for the snowy towel, “and this is refreshing. Dinner [not supper!] smells enticing.”

In spite of herself, Tierney found herself studying this man who, in just a couple of minutes, had proved himself to be a person of quality. This was no Ahab; this was no Herkimer.

This was a man who felt perfectly at ease sitting up to the table, whether it was supper or dinner. He seemed comfortable with the bowing of the head for the blessing; he conducted himself well in the matter of the table service and of eating and drinking. He was, Tierney and the Blooms concluded, that rare find—a gentleman, even as Lydia had surmised right away.

“I’m grateful to that friend of yours—Rob Dunbar—for looking me up,” Quinn Archer said, helping himself to the small,
fresh carrots, “and giving me the opportunity to take this position.”

Position!

“You understood,” Herbert said uncertainly, “when he talked to you, that this job is for a hired man—”

“Certainly. Entirely suitable, too. I need to work for a while, then look into getting a place of my own. I’m grateful.”

“Well,” Herbert responded, ahemming, gratified with the response, “we’re happy to have you, I can tell you. Our other man left right at the busy season, I guess you’d have to say. Summer keeps us hopping if we’re to be ready for winter.”

Quinn Archer explained that he had been raised on a farm in the States, then had become a teacher, only to become dissatisfied with that.

“I need a place to call home, a place of my own. A place I can put something of myself into,” he explained, and they all understood. “The more I see of Bliss, the better I like it. The more I learn of it, the more I think I’ll be happy to settle in the area. The name alone is descriptive of everything I’d like to incorporate into my life.”

“Well,” Herbert said reflectively, “it won’t come without a lot of hard work, some disappointment, and lots of prayer.”

Thus spoke the man who had arrived with enough money to almost buy his way to ease. The felling of the trees, the grubbing of the stumps, the erection of the buildings—all, all had been accomplished with paid help. And still it had been almost more than Herbert Bloom could weather. How a man, alone, might accomplish all that was necessary to prove up his land, was almost too much to comprehend.

But Quinn Archer was not the only man to make up his mind to do it. “I know you’re right,” he said. “But less equipped men have made it, and I will, too. I have my strength, a little money, and a lot of determination.”